


in rain, they'll bloom

by stringendos



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, First Love, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Pining, Reunions, suzumeoka!akaashi, the clumsy navigation of a first love and meeting them again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:13:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28317309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stringendos/pseuds/stringendos
Summary: “Akaashi?” she repeats, for the third time in the past five minutes.“Akaashi,” Bokuto confirms, as if his name is refinding its place in his mouth.“I know that name.”Between them, Bokuto shrinks. “No,” he stresses, “you really don’t.”“Wait!” She waves her index finger around, pointing, as if coming closer to the truth. It’s a little unnerving, Bokuto thinks, to see when the penny drops, and how her eyes widen as glee climbs across her face. “Yes, I do! Isn’t he your first love?”bokuto, and refinding a first love through the rain
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Comments: 2
Kudos: 41
Collections: Haikyuu Secret Santa 2020





	in rain, they'll bloom

**Author's Note:**

> > written for [@breadgayy](https://twitter.com/breadgayy) :) !
> 
> hi ida!! thank you so much for your patience! after seeing your prompt, i tried my best to keep this fluffy as i could. merry christmas (if you celebrate it) and happy holidays!!
> 
> \---------  
> \- written in a non linear timeline  
> \- here, i named bokuto's older sisters koharu and kanako (unless they have names and i completely missed that???)  
> \- idk anything about suzumeoka but if they Also scouted akaashi like fukurodani, im gonna pretend that theyre a powerhouse school too

For someone who comes from a family of florists, Bokuto has a terrible track record when it comes to keeping houseplants alive.

Kuroo had dubbed him _The_ _Plant Murderer_ , a title handed to him after Kuroo visited his grandparents in Nara for two and a half weeks and returned to, in his words, _carnage_. Back when they shared an apartment, his precious prayer plant had been entrusted to Bokuto’s care, paired with his earnest reassurances.

For a reason forgotten to him now, eleven in the evening had seemed like the ideal time to clean the whole apartment, which led to hauling the plant outside, camped out on their tiny balcony, and leaving it forgotten, then lost to the following fortnight.

When they found it again later, it was at the mercy of squirrels, the roots dug clean out of the soil; the leaves, singed by sunlight.

This is what he tells Akaashi over lunch one day.

This time, they’re sitting in the back room of the florist. The frost has settled in, and neither of them are tempted to brave the bone numbing cold that comes with the approaching first snow of the season; so Akaashi had turned up with two store bought bento boxes in hand. Bokuto has his chair angled so that he’s still got a full view of the storefront through the open door. Opposite him, Akaashi sits, curling ribbons with a talent that Bokuto was not blessed with, his meal already finished.

“It’s not like _I_ killed it,” Bokuto insists, around a mouthful of refrigerator-chilled croquette, for that was a crime committed under the hands of the world and not his own. "The _sun_ did." For it was forgetfulness that dealt the final blow, rather than him cradling it in overbearing palms and heavy handed care. “And I just forgot about it.”

And in his defence, where he lacks in the plant department, those with roots and shoots that sprout anew, he’s been blessed in others.

Between him and his two sisters, Bokuto’s always assigned the most important orders when it comes to flower arrangements. It's been something practised since young, almost as long as volleyball. Bokuto remembers the way he used clamber up on the stepping stool, too small then, that his height didn't even reach the counter, for all things stood like towering giants. Remembers, how his clumsy fingers rushed to follow his parents' own; hasty in replicating their motions. Remembers then, sitting cross-legged, perched on the tabletop, and picking out petals of purple and yellow and white; preening under his parents' praise and encouragement.

Now, it's something that comes with practised ease and he's gotten better too, at keeping them looking fresher for longer. An experiment of misplaced attention, to find the ideal mixture of sugar, bleach, and lemon juice (yuzu, sometimes, when it’s on sale at the supermarket, and his father comes home with cratefulls) - the chemistry of a genius, through the right set of eyes.

“You are good at centrepieces,” Akaashi agrees, easily. Bokuto perks up immediately, but wilts when he continues, without looking up from the tangle of bows, “but I hope you don’t advertise that you’re a plant murderer, Bokuto-san. I don’t think it would do well for business. Kanako-neesan wouldn’t be happy.”

“Akaashi!” He gasps, scandalised, then morphs his face into a pout, facial expressions a quick ebb and flow, in with the next tide. “I take it back; I’m not gonna help you!”

Akaashi laughs, bright and open; and _oh_ , Bokuto thinks, when he feels that familiar warmth bloom in his chest; and he greets it as he would an old friend, even if it feels heavier each time. Bigger too, he supposes, like it’ll stretch so wide that it’ll soon outgrow his ribcage.

Akaashi’s here to ask for help for a gift; _flowers_ , he mentions to Bokuto a little vaguely, as if guarding a secret, keeping his cards close to his chest.

But Bokuto has never been one to refuse him, so he nods immediately, no need for consideration.

“Of course! Anything for you.”

When Akaashi pauses, and looks at him with something that Bokuto doesn’t really understand, Bokuto stares back at him.

(Then, upon looking away, thinks nothing of it.)

The bell above the door rings to signal arrival just as Akaashi’s shrugging on his coat, a little later than usual to leave. It’s one of Bokuto's sisters, who greets them with a smile.

"Keiji-kun!" She always sounds delighted to see him. "Are you coming for dinner?"

"Sorry, Koharu-neesan, not today,” he replies, apologetic. “I have a client later and I won’t be done until late.”

With the table wiped, the empty boxes collected and stacked in the recycling, Akaashi makes his way to the entrance, with Bokuto trailing behind.

“I’ll see you later, Bokuto-san,” he says, swinging the door open.

Watching the way Akaashi’s breath mists in the air, Bokuto frowns and says, “Akaashi, wait there!” before disappearing back into the store to retrieve his own scarf.

“It’s cold out,” he mutters, when he returns, looping it around Akaashi’s neck. Once, then twice, brushes the hair out of his face before straightening back up, and grinning.

Before him, Akaashi’s nose and cheeks flush pink from the cold; so he retracts into the scarf. At the sight of him, Bokuto’s heart clenches, a weird swooping feeling settling in the bottom of his stomach.

“Thank you, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi breathes out, eyes soft, before giving a little wave.

In the doorway left ajar, Bokuto beams, then returns his own, two handed.

* * *

Behind the counter, his sister snorts.

Eyes fixed on Akaashi's retreating back, Bokuto misses it completely.

* * *

They meet for the first time at the Tokyo qualifiers for the Kanto Tournament; Akaashi at fifteen, and new to the hunger for victory on high school courts; Bokuto at sixteen, and his own, still unsated.

Or well, it’s not much of a meeting - no words exchanged, no awkward greetings; just glances stolen from the stands, and analysing Akaashi’s command of the ball.

Bokuto’s already watched the video footage, but it’s always different seeing someone in person, just as a court's depth warps at the net.

A week before, the five of them were crammed into Konoha’s bedroom, gathered on the floor. Sprawled out on his stomach, Bokuto was working his way through the plastic bag, stuffed full with convenience store snacks, as if it were another mission to complete, another limit to break, just to see if he can. He was getting crumbs on his futon; Washio's chiding, ignored.

“We need to watch out for him,” Komi had announced, jabbing a finger at the computer monitor.

According to Komi and his self proclaimed wide web of sources, his _unmatched ability_ of intel collection, this upcoming setter was scouted at his final junior high school match.

The only first year on the starting rotation of a team of giants.

So when Akaashi Keiji is substituted in during the top half of the second set, Bokuto watches unblinking, with baited breath.

* * *

When they meet at the Kanto Tournament, Bokuto’s too jittery with restless energy. Unable to keep still, he wanders around the competition venue, weaving through teams, air thrumming with a whirlwind of nerves.

Shifting his weight between his feet, an itch threads its way through his muscles and limbs, knotting somewhere in his stomach. His fingers tingle, eager to bound onto the court and slam down a thousand cross spikes and more.

Over the restroom sink, Bokuto lets the water flow; watches how it trails over his wrists, how it pools in two cupped hands. Then, he splashes the gathered fistfuls on his face. Once, then twice. But when his head still feels clouded, pulse stuck running a million miles a minute, mind, even more so; he decides to forgo it all, and dunks his whole head under running water.

He lets it wash over him, focuses on the pressure at the crown of his head, the way the water spirals and trails down to his temples, past his cheeks; and lets the sound from the crowds blur into white noise.

“Excuse me,” comes a voice. “Are you alright?”

Bokuto snaps upright, yelping when his head catches the faucet on his way up.

Volleyball jacket. Navy blue. Suzumeoka.

Akaashi Keiji, and a weird combination of startled and apologetic stamped across his face.

What Bokuto notices first, is that Akaashi Keiji, up close, is really, very pretty.

(He’s only a little shorter than Bokuto, shoulders a little narrower. But his presence is enough to fill a room or ten; the type that does not demand attention, but is offered it without requesting; draws a planet in like a moth to a flame.)

Then, too many beats later, it dawns on him that the faucet is still on. Bokuto's past mess is dripping off the edge of the sink; tapwater, forming a tiny lake at their feet.

Akaashi's question has been left unanswered.

“Ah!” Bokuto yells out. Slams the tap off. Most certainly does not panic. “I’m fine! Great!”

The water drips down his nape, settles past the collar of his shirt, leaving his skin feeling clammy.

Akaashi’s got his face schooled back into a more neutral expression, his lips pressed into a line, firm; but he doesn’t look angry. A smile, perhaps, even if it’s tilting into politeness, like manners drummed into him from infancy are the ones rising to the surface, possibly out of reflex alone.

Together, they stand, wordless.

Bokuto’s eyes flit around - to the water on the floor, to the dampness, seeping into his socks. To-

Akaashi Keiji, and a patch on the front of his jersey, slowly darkening.

Eyes widening, Bokuto takes an instinctive step back from the effects of his manmade thunderstorm. “I’m so sorry!”

In all honesty, Bokuto’s not sure why he’s doing this - patting at his pockets in search of a handkerchief that he knows he does not have. His body leads, leaving his mind to trail, before things like retrospect and better judgement pull things back into perspective, and tints it a different shade. All he discovers are these: his knee pads, one folded, one rolled, inside-out; an empty candy wrapper, scrunched into a ball; an omamori gifted to him from Koharu yesterday, paired with an intense slap on the back.

“It’s fine,” Akaashi answers, seemingly unfazed, and polite as ever.

Before this disaster can rupture into the size of a small landmass, the sight of Konoha’s face looms into view over Akaashi’s shoulder.

“Bokuto!” he hisses, borderline exasperated. “There you are. Yamiji-sensei’s calling for warm ups.”

Konoha nods to Akaashi, a little shadow of a bow, who replies with his own in turn, and then hauls Bokuto out of the restroom with a hand around his wrist.

* * *

Later, on the bus home; with Fukurodani’s official place past the qualifiers securely in their grasps; Bokuto’s mind drifts back, and it dawns on him slowly, Akaashi Keiji’s wording.

_Are you alright?_

And not, _what are you doing?_ paired with an uncomfortable glance - the usual reception from rival schools.

_Are you alright?_

And not, _Bokuto, you got this,_ paired with a gentle tug on the back of his collar from a teammate, long since acclimatised to his habits.

 _Are you alright?_ Akaashi Keiji (Suzumeoka’s secondary setter, toss rebounds, working on his jump serve-) had said, looking far more concerned than Bokuto had expected.

Beside him, the rustle of Sarukui opening a bag of chips jolts him out of his thoughts. With a tilt of his head and a thrust of the packet towards him, Sarukui offers a question alongside his snacks.

In reply, Bokuto shakes his head and takes a handful, shoving it into his mouth to muffle any answer.

* * *

The next time, Akaashi comes armed with a towel, and offers it to him when he’s lacing up his shoes. Today, the times for their matches collide; Fukurodani on court B; Suzumeoka, court D.

(If they both win, they’ll meet on the court.)

“It’s new, Bokuto-san,” he explains to him, when Bokuto blinks at him; as if thinking that that’s the meaning of his silence, misreading the pause completely.

He looks at him; then down at the towel in his hands, dyed a pale blue.

Down the hallway, someone calls for Akaashi, so he turns to leave until-

“Akaashi!”

He stops.

Bokuto has absolutely no idea why he blurted that out.

So, grasping blindly for words, he settles for, “good luck for today,” despite the nagging in his ear that sounds strangely like Konoha, offended at Bokuto engaging in the likes of _wishing a rival good luck_.

“You too, Bokuto-san.”

* * *

Throughout the years, they meet in dotted landmarks; in tournament venues, and matches, opening ceremonies and the calm before the competition storm. Unloaded jabs in friendly rivalry, and the way they walk, side by side, in careful tape measured steps.

* * *

They meet, for what Bokuto thinks is the last of times, at eighteen.

With no more tournaments to prepare for and graduation looming on the horizon, his time is no longer eaten up by volleyball drills and endless laps chasing the sun. Instead, he’s been helping out at his family’s florist, assigned the heavy lifting and all of the errands that his older sisters wince away from.

This morning’s task: delivery duty and the mission of shielding the plants from the downpours.

First, a potted orchid to Tsuda-san, who always asks if his straights have improved, even though he’s not sure if she knows what they are; then, a bouquet addressed to the Matsumoto family, in a congratulations on their new arrival. Now, home; his own succulent in hand as a pre graduation self-gift.

Making his way back to catch the train home, he keeps the clay pot trapped between his left forearm and chest, caught in the crook of his elbow, yellow umbrella overhead, in his right. His footsteps bound against the concrete, in time with the steady hammer of rain.

Outside the station, a stream of people pop open their own umbrellas in pinks and blues and greens, like flowers blooming out of concrete. There, stands a boy, hair a little damp, chin tilted up, staring at the sky.

“Akaashi!” he yells, to close the gap before his feet are able to.

In turn, Akaashi jolts towards his voice and then, with the distance bridged, offers, “Bokuto-san,” in an exhale, pleasantly surprised.

He must be on his way back from practice, decked out in Suzumeoka’s usual training jersey, his windbreaker zipped to the top.

Shifting his umbrella so it covers the both of them, their steps lead them away from the heart of the bustle at the entrance. Before them, the rain thunders down, as steady company, no sign of yielding.

Akaashi, Bokuto has long since learnt, is a good listener; and it’s easy for them to settle into a comfortable lull. He knows that he sometimes goes on, speaks and overspeaks, without realising he is; but Akaashi always listens, attentive in the way that makes Bokuto feel like his rambling, no matter how trivial, holds a certain weight. As if he’s always willing to listen, if there are words Bokuto wants to be heard.

He looks down at his hand, where the succulent stares back at him. And it’s not what he had intended as a gift to Akaashi, nothing close to the bunch of agapanthuses that he’s kept aside in the store.

Because he’d imagined this: flowers, in one hand, a second button in the other; two boys under the fall of the cherry blossoms, with hearts stitched onto their sleeves.

But he decides, in a choice made in between the seconds, his words unleashed before he can reel them back, “Please take this!” and readjusts his grip to thrust out the tiny potted succulent towards him. “As a thank you for the towel that time. And for well… just... thank you!”

“Bokuto-san-”

“Don’t worry, it’s not for a customer!” Bokuto interrupts, waving off his concerns. “It’s mine-” A pause then, to correct himself. “Well… _yours_ now!”

In his pocket, Bokuto’s phone buzzes. It grows, persistent in its call for attention, like water coming to a boil and threatening to overflow. In his mind, he can already imagine his sister grumbling on the other end.

So in movements, hasty, Bokuto pushes the plant pot into Akaashi’s startled hold, his hands fumbling, to catch it before it falls. Then, with one more glance at the rain, and how it doesn’t look like it’ll fade into a drizzle any time soon, tilts the umbrella until it rests in the dip in Akaashi’s shoulder, at the point just before the curve of his neck.

“Take this too! I don’t want you to catch a cold.”

Readying his feet to sprint to catch his train home, Bokuto’s halfway towards the steps leading to the barriers before-

“Bokuto-san!” Akaashi calls out, the sound abrupt against the air.

Freezing in his tracks, Bokuto spins back around. “Yeah?”

They say that Bokuto is someone who has no patience. Microwave door opened with three seconds left on the timer; his phone unplugged at 98% charge. Rocking on the balls of his feet when the train approaches the platform. Blazer shrugged off, sneakers barely on, before he steps, like thunder, onto the court before practice.

“Akaashi?”

But here, Bokuto waits; and leaves Akaashi the space to find his words.

Around them, the world melts into a gentle simmer, crowd blurring around them; time standing on its toes. Bokuto waits and watches Akaashi, the little furrow between his eyebrows, that stiffness to his jaw, as if grappling with which thoughts to voice out loud.

Eyes flickering back up to Bokuto’s face, Akaashi shakes his head, a motion barely noticeable, and sends him a small smile.

“It’s a little early but congratulations,” he says, after a while, “on your graduation.”

* * *

In the rain, over the dips in the road and loose pavement slabs, Bokuto sprints home, his steps light. Even when he’s soaked down to the bone by the time he kicks off his shoes in the genkan, he can’t find it in himself to mind all that much.

* * *

Things pass, as they tend to, with first loves fleeting and fruitless.

Bokuto graduates. Meets new volleyball courts to dominate, and kingdoms to conquer. Meets old high school friends, a little less. In his down time, Bokuto helps out at the florist.

The years build, and seasons come and go.

With each approaching spring, customers line the stores; for ribbon tied flowers to congratulate the upcoming cohorts of graduates. He’s reminded of Akaashi, when a teenager, on the brink of graduation, requests for flowers meaning _first love_.

“Isn’t it romantic,” Kanako coos after the customer leaves, “to be able to hold a love letter in every bouquet?”

At this, Bokuto can't help but agree. He returns back to his own vase, Japanese primroses today, and trims the stems at an angle.

That evening, it rains in a steady shower, that lasts for the rest of the week.

* * *

There must be a universal law written somewhere, scrawled into the fibres of the earth, that things happen when you least expect it.

It’s late afternoon and Bokuto’s halfway through misting the flowers, when Koharu mentions it.

“Have you met him?”

“Who?”

“Y’know Kiyoko-chan? From the tattoo parlour down the road by the station?” Bokuto nods. She’d asked him before, if he had ever considered getting a tattoo, and then yielded when Bokuto grimaced at the idea of the needle. “She’s got a new assistant.”

Bokuto hums in reply, a little absentmindedly.

“Kana says he’s pretty,” she continues, trying to get his attention. “Your type, apparently.” Wiggling her eyebrows, she crosses the shop floor to get to the back room to grab her raincoat, and jabs him with her elbow on her way.

Long since acclimatised to her meddling ways of matchmaking, Bokuto sticks his tongue out at her before returning to his task. Since she started taking evening classes this semester, Bokuto’s always the one to lock up. Sometimes with Kanako; most times, alone.

“Your jacket’s waterproof, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m stealing your umbrella,” Koharu says, voice lilting as she buttons up her coat, before grabbing the umbrella from the bucket at the doorway.

“Nee-chan!” Bokuto whines, but doesn’t fight it.

On her way out, she ruffles his hair. “Lemme know if you see him!”

When he’s locking up, he steps outside, still seeking shelter underneath the awning. It’s raining harder than the morning. Bokuto stares down at his feet, mentally preparing himself for the squelch in his shoes, waterlogged no doubt, for at least the next few days.

But when he looks up, he freezes.

“Bokuto-san?”

Because opposite from him stands Akaashi Keiji, a blue umbrella in hand.

* * *

They find each other again, with Bokuto eight days into his twenty-fourth summer, under the fall of rain and a too small umbrella, shared.

* * *

Later, when Bokuto’s preparing dinner with his sisters, they’ve taken to wheedling information out of him, delighted at the developments.

That _yes, nee-chan_ , he did see the new assistant; and _yes_ , he did introduce himself.

(And _yes; he is very pretty._ )

(Even prettier, somehow, than in Bokuto’s memory.)

“ _Akaashi?_ ” Koharu repeats, for the third time in the past five minutes, after successfully interrogating a name out of him.

“Akaashi,” Bokuto confirms, as if his name is refinding its place in his mouth.

She’s got a crazy glint in her eye. “I know that name.”

Between them, Bokuto shrinks. “ _No_ ,” he stresses, “you really don’t.”

And then proceeds to rifle around in the cupboard for their usual crockery. Out come the rice bowls, the cutlery, a ladle for soup; a few plates for their side dishes. Today, more radish than usual, because Kanako has discovered a new talent for haggling with the aunties at the market.

“Wait!” She waves her index finger around, pointing, as if coming closer to the truth. It’s a little unnerving, Bokuto thinks, to see when the penny drops, and how her eyes widen as glee climbs across her face. “Yes, I do! Isn’t that your first love?”

Red in the face, Bokuto presses his forehead into the countertop as if he could melt into it to avoid their cackles.

* * *

Rose-tinted, they had told him; his moments with Akaashi in his teenage years, for they were fleeting, in half meetings and tentative skirting, and shy glances stolen. Like cropping frames from a movie reel, hoarded in a collection of only the highlights. A hand held up, palm splayed to the sky, to only reveal parts, and keep the others hidden.

And they had warned, that as with all first loves, memories like these, are better left untouched; before reality comes crashing down.

But meeting Akaashi then, and meeting him now; filling in all the gaps left behind with time; Bokuto finds that fondness grows, with each passing season.

With each new thing he learns, he makes mental notes of them all; scrawls them down onto little post-it notes, and tucks them away for safekeeping.

The years have been kind to Akaashi. He’s a little taller, his jaw a little sharper, his hair a little longer. Long enough to fall into his eyes, long enough for Bokuto to push it from his face as he blinks at him, still tired and sleep soft and half a leg into a dream. He’s got glasses now too. That fog up over ramen dinners, sat close enough that their knees knock together.

And tattoos. That’s new too. Ones that climb over his arms, settle somewhere beneath his shirt. Sometimes, Bokuto imagines tracing his fingers over them, running over the dips of his elbows, the valleys of his palms.

(Wonders then, what it'd be like, to hold his hand in his own.)

* * *

It’s almost too easy the way Akaashi weaves his way into his life. Easier still, to pick up where they left off.

While they used to see each other in sparse moments; unprompted, most times, and meeting points left unsaid; now, they see each other daily, with Akaashi far closer than before.

Sometimes it's dinner; in cozy izakayas, tucked in corners of the city, hidden under the veil of the bustle. Other times, it's homemade meals, their elbows, bumping together over the sink.

On most days, Akaashi helps Bokuto close the florist, navigating across the shop floor in familiar paths. It always feels different like this; just the two of them past closing time, with only the dim lamps on, surrounded by this little forest.

As they make their way around the storeroom, Akaashi's attentive to Bokuto, hands over his focus entirely. It's a usual routine between them; Akaashi always asks him about the language of flowers, and each time, he asks about a different one.

In return, Bokuto always has an answer, ready and willing.

(This one here, _sunshine_ ; this one here, _memories_. This one here, _longing_.)

It's when they're repotting some of the older succulents that Bokuto brings it up.

"Akaashi! Do you remember that plant I gave you?"

"Yes."

"Do you still have it?"

For a moment, Akaashi falls silent.

These days, Akaashi's been quieter, more dazed. Like he's lost in his thoughts, and trying to unfold a mystery with eyes shut. So Bokuto allows the question to go unanswered, mouth already gearing up to shift subjects; like this new TBS drama he has been watching with his family; how there's a new cat wandering the neighbourhood.

“Of course I do,” Akaashi replies, eventually, picking up the ends of a conversation long since left.

His voice is pitched low, as if admitting something he’s not quite sure he’s allowed to.

“It was from you.”

* * *

(A few weeks down the line, after closing the store for the evening, Bokuto finds a potted plant, Japanese Primroses, beyond the threshold.

"Bokuto-san!"

Before him, Akaashi stands, waiting; umbrella in hand, coming in to close the distance.

And around them, the snow falls, the first of the season.)

**Author's Note:**

> \- prayer plants will dry out and burn under direct sunlight  
> \- japanese primroses (sakurasou): a love ~during your youth~/long lasting love (and they also grow well in rain)  
> \- agapanthuses: love letter  
> 
> 
> fluff... is... difficult........ i tried.... my best......... thank you to n for sitting through my many different ideas, answering all of my qs (which all pointed to _n o_ that is Not Fluff), and pushing me back onto the fluff path every time i yearned too hard ♡  
> 
> 
> thank you for reading !


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